Boredom and Video Games
by UndineCalledSushi
Summary: Faced with death by boredom and an irritated Watson, Sherlock takes a simple case. However the sister of the client is far more interesting than any case. Not that he would admit it. I suck at summaries, just try it. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter One: The Meeting

**Disclaimer Time****! I don't own Sherlock or any characters portrayed within (except for Rahne, Aubrey, and anyone you don't recognize from the show). Those honors go to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. My hat goes off to you, my good sirs.**

((A/N: A few facts in this story will not be correct. Please keep that in mind and do not complain to me about them. This story is not based completely in the real world considering that most of it was written at ungodly hours of the night/morning. That being said, enjoy the story and feel free to leave me some comments. Also: 'Rahne' is pronounced 'rain'.))

The door to 221b Baker Street needed to be oiled, the hinges giving off a whisper-quiet scream every time the door was opened. The thought flashed through Sherlock's head and was quickly replaced by another, thoughts flashing through his mind in an unrelenting torrent. He needed a new case. He imagined that this was what addiction felt like for the idiot masses that surrounded him on all sides. Weeks had passed since he had last faced off against Moriarty. Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear out the memories of that night, trying not to dwell on the fact that he had been outsmarted, but the memories ran through his mind anyway. Firing the gun, the noise of the explosion, flying backwards into the pool, pain and darkness. He woke up several hours later in the hospital, one of Mycroft's agents filling him in on the events that had occurred since Sherlock had been out. Both he and John had been blown back by the explosion; Sherlock into the pool, John into a wall.

Moriarty had escaped.

That fact was the only one that Sherlock could hear. Not that John had a broken leg that would make his psychosomatic limp as real as he had imagined it. Not that the explosion had cracked or broken most of the ribs on Sherlock's right side and had severe burns on the right side of his chest, or that he had been clinically dead for three minutes before being resuscitated by one of the agents that Mycroft had set on him. The only fact that registered was that Moriarty had escaped. The only man ever to best his mind had gotten away from him. That was enough to make Sherlock want to scream like the door hinges.

A cold breath of wind brushed his skin, causing him to shiver and realize that he hadn't moved inside since he had started this ridiculous flashback. He shook himself irritably and stalked inside, listening to the hinges scream in frustration as he shut the door behind him. He ran lightly up the stairs, quieting his footsteps as he saw John putting water in the kettle. Sherlock grinned at the prospect of mayhem. He crept forward, waiting until he was close enough to John to smell his aftershave, before he spoke. "The front door really needs oiling." The kettle clanged on the floor, water spilling across the tiling. John jumped in place, throwing an elbow back to catch Holmes in the ribs. Sherlock winced and chuckled as Watson unleashed a torrent of profanity. "God damn it Holmes! Stop doing that! You really need a new case before you start trying to dose my coffee with something." Holmes looked mildly insulted. "Why would I resort to such primitive methods? If I wanted to test a drug on you all I would have to do is inject you while you were sleeping." John sighed as he grabbed a tea towel and mopped up the spilled water on the floor. "Somehow, Sherlock, that doesn't reassure me at all."

An hour later the phone rang. John cast Sherlock an annoyed glance after it rang several more times and Holmes had made no move to answer it. The phone rang twice more before John roughly grabbed it from Sherlock's pocket. "Honestly, it's like living with a four year old." Holmes smirked as John answered the phone. "Oh, but John. I am so much more intelligent than the average four year old. Even when I _was_ four." John shot him an annoyed look as he took down information on a pad of paper. "Right. We'll be over this afternoon." John hung up the phone as Sherlock said, "No we won't." John glared at him. "Yes, Sherlock, we will be there. You are driving me insane. I don't care if this is a case to help them find their keys, you will use this to occupy your mind. Even if it is for half a minute!" John snapped at him. Sherlock frowned. "I am not going."

Two hours later John rang the doorbell, Holmes standing behind him, annoyance playing over his features like lightning in a thunderhead. The door was opened by a pale woman who fidgeted as Sherlock looked her over. Red-brown hair and blue-gray eyes, underlined by bruised circles that made her eyes seem bigger (They look like bruises, Sherlock mused, but the more likely cause is lack of sleep.). Glasses with black plastic frames. An oversized, black zip-up hoodie that probably came from a boyfriend (or girlfriend, Holmes mentally added, remembering John's sister), a gray tank top. A silver ring with a Celtic knot pattern on her left thumb that clicked against the door as her hands twitched against it. Light flashed from a key that hung around her neck. Black gym shorts that went down to her knees, a faint scar running out from underneath them, curling around the side of her knee and out of sight behind it. "Y-you must be h-h-here for Aubrey. C-come in then," she stuttered before disappearing into the house, leaving them to close the door behind them. Another woman appeared; casting an annoyed look in the direction the other woman had gone.

"I apologize for Rahne, she's not very good around people. I'm Aubrey McLean." Aubrey's voice was husky, warm. She had a body that many men no doubt lusted over, full and hourglass. Holmes could actually see his colleague beginning to fall under her spell. "Please, follow me," Aubrey said, sweeping down a corridor. One hundred and twenty steps later they were in a sitting room and Aubrey was motioning to chairs for them to sit in. Once they were all seated comfortably, introductions made and tea poured, Aubrey started on her story. "Our house was recently broken into and several articles of some great value were stolen from us." Sherlock interrupted, "'Us' being…?" Aubrey glanced at him, "Myself and Rahne, the girl who answered the door. She is somewhat of a shut in. I don't know the reason she opened the door for you. Usually when she hears the doorbell she's off like a shot. Barely any of my friends realize that I have a sister," Aubrey laughed, a light sound like dust motes in sunshine, "Can you believe that some of them actually thought she was a ghost?" Sherlock could feel himself becoming irritated at the woman and took a breath to calm himself.

"You've checked the local pawnshops and reported it to the police?" It was John asking the question, not Sherlock. "Yes, of course Mr. Watson. The police have tried their best, I'm sure, but they have no leads to go on. The pawnshops near here have all denied seeing the items, and I am inclined to believe them. The items stolen were not as easy to get rid of as a television or a stereo. You would need to find specialized buyers, someone to authenticate them, a reputable shipping company." Sherlock cleared his throat. "What exactly was stolen? I assume that you were insured." Aubrey nodded, "Of course, Mr. Holmes. The items in question were heavily insured; we've already been questioned by the insurance agency. They found it satisfactory and said that they will pay us by the end of the month. That being said, they are family heirlooms and I would very much like to have them back. As to what was stolen…" Aubrey trailed off, rifling through a sheaf of papers, handing both of them a pair of photographs with pale, fine-boned fingers. They were of three gilded animal skulls from different angles; the first was canine, possibly jackal, the second corvus, a raven or a crow, the third was vulpine. They were intricately decorated with chips of gemstones. "One of my many-greats grandfathers found these in some location or other. No one really knows where they originated." Sherlock flicked the pictures onto the table in front of him. "I'll see what I can do," he said, rising to leave. Aubrey blinked, surprise on her beautiful face. Apparently she had been expecting more questions.

"I'll contact you if I need anything else," he said on his way out the door. He could hear John's voice murmuring pleasantries behind him, Aubrey returning them. His hand was on the doorknob when he sensed someone watching him. He turned his head and saw Aubrey's sister, Rahne. She was mostly hidden by a turn in the hallway, and she seemed surprised at being seen. She turned and ran down the hallway. His boredom momentarily relieved by her odd behavior, Sherlock turned and went after her.

Sherlock followed the sound of raucous music down one hallway, then another. He finally reached a door with the words GO AWAY written on it in thick block letters. He opened it without knocking and was greeted by utter chaos. The room itself was dark, pieces of fabric acting as curtains, hanging over a skylight. The floor was concealed by a layer of clothes and books. A desk was pushed up to the wall in front of him, strewn with trash, prescription pill bottles, ibuprofen and Excedrin bottles, junk food and fast food wrappers, empty cans and bottles, crumpled papers, and assorted pens. Two monitors, currently off, were the only things on the desk that were clean. The only illumination in the room came from a television on top of another table in the far corner, which appeared to be showing the paused screen of a video game. More pieces of fabric hung from the ceiling on his left, hiding what he assumed to be a bed and the room's occupant.

He pulled the curtain back seeing a huge nest of blankets on top of a king sized mattress. He stood there for a few moments, watching the pile of blankets. They stirred, but otherwise nothing happened. He sighed and sank to the floor, determined to wait her out. A few minutes went by, his phone buzzed. Probably John asking where he'd gotten to. It could wait. A few more minutes went by and the boredom was almost overwhelming. A flashing light drew his attention and he picked up a wireless controller. He leaned against a wall and selected NEW GAME.

There was a massive upset in the blankets, but still no pale-skinned woman appeared. More time passed as Sherlock played the video game and Rahne watched. "You're doing it wrong." The soft voice almost startled him. He looked over at the mass of blankets next. Rahne still hadn't emerged, but light reflected off her eyes, two pinpoints of light in the dark of the room. "Is that so?" he questioned. "Yeah, is so," came the retort, no stutter evident. She was in her element, calm. Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if she were holding some kind of weapon under all the blankets. "Press right trigger to fire, left trigger to aim. You're doing it wrong." Sherlock looked at the controller. If he was being honest he had never used a gaming console, so everything she had just said was gibberish. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?" The quiet tone was exasperated now. "Maybe if I could see the controller I'd be able to play better." Shuffling from under the blankets. "Please don't turn on the lights." A hand emerged, "I'll show you what I mean." Rahne sat up, blankets falling away from her. She'd taken off her glasses and her eyes glowed in the dark room. She moved towards him and light glinted on the knife in her hand. Sherlock grinned, right yet again. The grin made the woman in front of him freeze for a moment, before determinedly moving closer. She grabbed the controller with her free hand, flipping it up. "This is a trigger, this is a bumper," she said, pointing each one out with the knife. She withdrew and leaned against the wall, watching the screen. Sherlock continued playing.

"Not going back under the blankets then?" He watched Rahne shrug from the corner of his eye. "Stuffy under there," she said, words accentuated by the sound of a soda can being popped open. "Would you like one?" Sherlock shook his head, swearing quietly to himself as his character fell off a cliff and died. Rahne laughed softly as his character respawned. "You really need to start saving your game more often, mate." He could hear the smile in her voice. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" he asked. The knife snaked out and pressed a small button near the center of the controller. The save screen appeared on the television. "Ah," Sherlock said. "You've never actually played a video game before, have you?" Rahne asked. "They have no basis in reality, and therefore are useless to me," Sherlock replied. "Loads of things have no basis in reality, loads more do but they are useless anyway," Rahne said. "No facts are useless," Sherlock maintained, eyes still on the TV, thumbs still working the controller. "Is that right? Then tell me, genius-man, what possible use could knowing the longest tapeworm pulled out of a human intestine have? Or knowing that the world's biggest pancake was cooked in Rochdale in 1994?" Sherlock shrugged, "I'm sure that there is something that that knowledge would be useful in."

Rahne laughed. "Half-wit." Sherlock growled as his character died again. "I give in. This game is impossible." Rahne laughed again and took the controller from him, turning off the console and TV, plunging the room further into darkness. "So tell me then, Mr. Holmes. Why did you come after me?" She asked from the darkness. He heard her move and take a sip of her soda. "Your sister…" he began. "Yes, yes, yes," Rahne interrupted. "I know why you're here, Aubrey got you looking for those bloody heirloom skulls. I asked you why you are _here_, in the dark, playing video games and talking to Aubrey's secret sister."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "I was bored." A laugh. "Boredom is a good a reason as any I suppose, Mr. Holmes. You've been bored a lot lately, haven't you?" Sherlock shook his head and then, remembering how dark it was, said "No". He heard a _tap_ as she set the can down on something hard, a clear bit of floor perhaps. "Don't lie, Mr. Holmes. You've been looking for Moriarty and he's more a ghost than those in the Tower of London. Since he disappeared you've had no puzzles intricate enough to actually occupy your mind for longer than a few minutes. And it's been driving you _crazy_, hasn't it?"

By the time she had finished speaking he was on her, pinning her to the floor. "How do you know that?" He demanded. Her only response was to laugh, an ugly, half-crazed sound, nothing like her sister's. His hand gripped her jaw so hard it hurt, so hard that she would be standing in front of the mirror the next morning, looking for his fingers outlined on her face. "Tell me," he snarled. She just grinned in response. "What's the matter Sherlock? Don't like it when you meet a puzzle you can't solve?" His hand squeezed tighter, if possible. Suddenly grinning hurt, but she forced herself to continue. It was just so much _fun_ to see him so infuriated, so close to human. As close as either of them would ever get to _being_ human. His eyes darkened with rage, he looked like a wraith, all black hair and eyes, pale skin and red lips. Curiosity pulled at her mind again and she dug her thumbnail into the pressure point between his thumb and forefinger, her head darting forward before he had a chance to reclaim his grip. Her lips smashed into his, biting his lower lip. She tasted blood, coppery and warm, and she backed off, rolling to her feet, still grinning. He rocked back and looked up at her from his position on the floor.

She looked like a murderous apparition, his blood painting her lips red against her skin, so pale he could see the veins pulsing in her arms. His hand rose to his mouth and he looked at the blood on his fingers in numbed shock. He had been _kissed_. While he stared at his bloodied fingers in shock she had already moved on, turning on the monitors. He could see a document open on one, half the visible page already covered in type. A movie playing on the other, the volume low enough that the actor's voices were barely audible murmurs to him.

"When you're done just standing there, you can let yourself out," she said, her level voice breaking through the confusion in his mind. Sherlock left to the sound of voices and the music of keys being pressed rapidly, refusing to think of why he was so rattled. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket before he reached the door and cleaned the blood off his face. Sucking on his bitten lip, he exited the house, making his way home.


	2. Chapter Two: The Doctor Will See You Now

The first thing he did when he got home was check the locks. Sure enough there were scratches around the keyholes on both doors and the desk drawer he kept most of his case files in. Everything she had said to him could be rationally explained. He cursed himself for allowing himself to be so rattled. He tasted blood on his lips again, the cut having split open again. He wiped it away, the dark blood against his skin reminding him of how Rahne had looked in the dark room with his blood seemingly the only color on her. He shook the thought away and went to the place the skulls had been taken. It had taken him less time than he would've thought to solve the case, knowing the gentleman who would be looking for such artifacts. He had the skulls back in the caring arms of Aubrey McLean by the end of the day. Two days later he went to check and make sure that they had, in fact been delivered. Aubrey greeted him, thanked him for his swift conclusion of her case and inquired what he was doing in her home. He smiled politely and told her that he was here to visit her sister. He didn't wait for permission and turned down the hallway that led to the dark room with its enigma of an occupant.

Not half a minute later, he opened the door to Rahne's room. She was facing away from the door and he could see her back tense at the sound of his footsteps entering the room. She spun at the sound of his voice, her hair covering most her face, lips contorted into a snarl, rage and madness sparking in her eyes. Their gazes locked and Sherlock thought of werewolves, how the sanest man was turned into a ravening beast in seconds. She leapt at him. Sherlock barely had enough time to get his arm up in time to stop her teeth from fastening around his neck; he could feel those teeth even through his thick coat. Before she had time to let go and make another try for his neck, he grabbed the back of her head, ensuring that even if she let go of his arm she would not be able to get away easily. Her response to this was to bite down harder, making Sherlock wince slightly as pain arced up his arm. He spun around, hearing the thud as her back hit the wall. He released his grip on the back of her head, moving his hand to her neck instead. "Let go, Rahne," he said, keeping his voice calm and even, the way one would talk to a frightened animal. Her only response was to bite down harder, making Sherlock growl and hit her head against the wall. "Let. Go." He tightened his grip on her neck until he could feel the air rushing through her throat. She bit harder until the need for air overrode the need to taste his blood.

His left arm dropped, his right hand stayed on her throat, pinning her to the wall. He could see sanity and intelligence returning to her eyes. "If I let go are you going to bite me again?" His voice was calm and she shook her head as much as one can with a hand around their neck. Sherlock cautiously released his hold, watching her sag against the wall. She looked more exhausted than he had seen her in the two weeks they had known each other. "Get out, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was scratchy and slow, as if it took a great amount of effort for her to say the words. "Will you be okay?" he asked. Her shoulders tensed again, her eyes lifted to his. He could see disbelief in them. "I'll be fine, Mr. Holmes. Now please leave," Rahne said. Her voice was still tired, but there was steel in it now, and shame. There was a bruise on the side of her face, too old to be from him. There was also blood darkening the gray of her shirt. Sherlock pulled out one of his rarely used business cards from his pocket and tossed it towards the bed, watching the card flutter this way and that before landing a foot from the bed, before he turned and left the darkened room.

It was almost a week later that his phone buzzed, showing an unrecognized number. He was lying on the couch, contemplating a second nicotine patch when he heard it go off. It kept buzzing, signifying a call and not a text, so he didn't move. The caller rang twice more before Sherlock was irritated enough to get up and answer it. "Yes? Hello? What do you want?" He snapped at the person on the other line. At first there was just ragged breathing and then, right as Sherlock was about to hang up, a woman spoke. "Sherlock? This… this is Rahne. You left me you number a few days ago," a sound that might have been a choked off sob or a sharp inhale came across the phone line, followed by a string of what sounded like _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_. It took a few more labored breaths before Rahne continued. "I'm sorry to call you like this, but there's no one else I can ask. I need help Mr. Holmes, quick and quiet."

"What about your sister?" Sherlock asked. Panic leaked into Rahne's voice, "Aubrey can't know about this. Please Mr. Holmes, just trust me when I say there is no one else I can ask." Sherlock sighed, "I'll be there in a few minutes." Rahne's voice was strained now, panicked, "Thank you Mr. Holmes. And I'm sorry for what happened last time you were here." The line went dead. Sherlock was halfway into his coat by the time he reached the door. Ten minutes later, record time in his opinion, he had let himself into the McLean's flat and was making his way to Rahne's room. He didn't knock, though his previous experience should have made it a top priority. The room was dark and he fumbled along the wall for a switch. He found it a moment later and was greeted by blood.

Rahne lay curled on a cleaned circle of the floor, her eyes closed, cell phone an inch away from her. He could see the streaks of blood across the wooden flooring where she'd tried to clean the blood with an old T shirt. He could see her ribs moving through the thin shirt she was wearing, her breathing was shallow and fast. He took the two steps necessary to reach her, glass crunched under his shoe. He carefully pushed her onto her back, seeing that the majority of blood had come from the deep gashes on her right arm. The fingers of her left hand were bleeding as well, tiny shallow cuts that had probably been obtained by pulling the glass shards from her arm. As he checked her pulse, her eyes opened, slightly glazed, a little confused, but the sharp intelligence that he enjoyed was still there. "Rahne, what do you need me to do? Why did you call me?" He asked. Rahne's eyes rolled in her head, the confusion starting to win. "No, Rahne. Stay with me." Sherlock took a wild stab in the dark, trying to induce enough adrenaline to get her to focus on what he was saying. "If you pass out now, I'll leave you here and go get your sister."

Rahne's eyes shot open. "What do you need from me," Sherlock asked again, quickly, because he wasn't sure how long the lucidity was going to last. "Clean and bandage my arm, finish cleaning the blood, move me to bed. Everything's in bottom left hand drawer. Aubrey can't know. Take the blood with you." With that her eyes rolled back and she was out again. Sherlock sighed and went to the specified drawer. He was mildly shocked at the mass amounts of wound care supplies. Antibiotic ointment, bandages, Band-Aids of varying sizes for various wounds, tourniquets, hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol, surgical sutures and needles, forceps, packages of gauze, medical tape, the list went on. He grabbed the ointment, forceps, peroxide, several packages of gauze, and bandages, dumped them near her on a bit of floor that didn't have blood on it, went to the bin, grabbed a pop can and sat down next to her. She'd done a good job getting most of the glass out before blood loss had knocked her out, but there were still some pieces left. He pulled these out with the forceps and dropped them in the can.

When he was satisfied that all the glass that could be removed had been, he poured peroxide over her arm and wiped away the resulting foam with a square of gauze. He repeated this process a couple more times before liberally smearing the ointment over all the cuts. He looked at the deepest one, thanked whatever luck followed people like him that she was unconscious, then got up and got the sutures and a needle. It took him less that a minute to put twelve stitches in her arm, ensuring that the cut would heal faster. He put another smear of ointment over the stitches, and then covered it with gauze and wrapped the whole thing with bandages. He secured it with the clip that had come on the roll and picked her up.

She was so light he almost fell over backwards from lifting her, expecting more weight than she had. He put her on the bed and pulled a blanket over her. She was still unconscious, luckily. She didn't have to endure the pain of new stitches. He could remember one or two times when he had wished for the same oblivion. He used two more pads of gauze to completely clean the floor of blood, rolling all the gauze he had used into a tight tube and shoving it down the mouth of the can. He put away the excess supplies and closed the drawer. He put the can in his overcoat pocket (he had removed as he was gathering the supplies, throwing over the back of the desk chair.) and went back to the bed. He felt Rahne's pulse again, steadier than it had been. Her breathing had become more regular as well. As he was standing up to go, he felt a tug on his pant leg. He looked down to see Rahne's uninjured hand fisted in the material of his trousers, glassy eyes wide and scared. "Please don't go," she whispered as her eyes slid shut again.

Sherlock sighed, apparently this girl… woman… was able to order him to do anything. He got up, closed the door, turned off the lights, and sat on the edge of the bed. He removed his shoes and socks for propriety's sake and his belt, jumper, and shirt for comfort's. He slid himself under the blankets and stroked his fingertips along Rahne's pale cheek. "I won't go anywhere," he said softly. She sighed and moved closer, grabbing his hand as he pulled it away. "Thank you," she murmured, so softly he wondered if she was still unconscious. Her breath is warm against his palm.

He wakes up to Danse Macabre blaring in his ear. He looks for the source and sees and alarm clock with an iPod dock, the digital display telling him it is 4:30 in the morning. He slaps the alarm off and rolls over before he remembers the night before. He bolts upright, looking over at the woman sleeping next to him. He rubs his hand over his face, trying to wipe away the confusion and fog of sleep. Next to him, Rahne murmurs in her sleep, scuttling backwards towards him. Her arm is still wrapped in bandages, spots of red staining them. He gets up and leaves without waking her.

That evening he returns, carrying Chinese take-out and a liter of water. Aubrey looks at him suspiciously when he tells her that he and Rahne are friends. He pushes past her, heading towards Rahne's room, curiosity eating at him like it does whenever he goes down this hallway. Is it normal to bring one's friends Chinese and water? He isn't sure. It's not like he's done this before, no one except John has ever wanted to put up with him long enough to call him a friend. Not that he cares.

He enters, as always, without knocking. The room is once more dark, illuminated by the television. It isn't a video game that has her attention this time, but an episode of some TV show. A man with large ears is holding the hand of a blonde girl. "I can feel it," the man is saying, "The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinnin' at 1,000 miles an hour and the entire planet is hurtling around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour, and I can feel it. We're fallin' through space, you and me, clinging to the skin of this tiny little world, and if we let go... That's who I am." Sherlock shakes his head and moves further into the room. "That's not much of an explanation of who he is," Sherlock says. Rahne doesn't even jump, "That's the point Mr. Holmes. It's beautiful and sad and it has no point. Sometimes I have to remind myself that nothing _has_ to make sense," her eyes slide to him, "Otherwise I'll end up like you."

Sherlock sets down the water and the bag with the Chinese. "What do you mean, like me?" He asks. Rahne's voice is tired and her eyes shine in the light of the television. He thinks she looks like a ghost with those shining eyes and deathly white skin. _Beautiful and sad_. The words drift across his mind and he shakes them away, looking at the screen. The man has let go of the girl's hand and is walking away. The screen freezes and he looks back at Rahne, who has paused the show using the gaming controller.

"I mean I'll end up hating myself and everything around me," she says, and it takes him a second to understand what she's talking about. "I'll start to think that only what I say or do or think matters and when the world goes to hell it will have nothing to do with me," Rahne pauses and looks at him, smiling slightly, "And when a woman I barely know calls me for help in the middle of the night and tells me her kin can't know I will come to help her even though I have no reason other than it is me she called and not someone else."

It takes him a minute to find his voice. "That last bit doesn't seem so bad," he finally says. Rahne smiles, "No it doesn't, which reminds me. Why are you here?" Sherlock lifts the water and gives it to her. "You need water," he explains, "And you've probably not eaten." Her stomach rumbles in response and he can see her skin stain with a blush. "That doesn't answer my question. I did not call, so you had no reason to come here." She twists off the cap anyway and drinks. Sherlock wonders if he should've bought another bottle for her. He starts to unload the various boxes of rice and fried meats, saying "My reason is that I enjoy your company. Until Moriarty does something noticeable, it would seem that you are the only person in London that can stave off boredom." Her laughter fills the room, and in that moment she is beautiful. Something he has not felt in a long time coils heat within his belly and he pauses in opening a container of vegetables. "Thank you," Rahne says, oblivious to his shock. Her hand looks so small, dwarfed by the bandaging on her arm, as she reaches out and grabs an unopened container. "Are you going to tell me how that happened?" he asks, motioning at her arm.

Now it is her turn to pause in the middle of opening a container. "I took a wrong turn and got jumped," she says, all her focus on opening her food. "It's my own bloody fault for not bringing my knife with me. I got too confident and paid the price." Sherlock thinks back to a text he had received earlier that day about an attack in a back alley, one man dead and two in critical care. "But so did they," he says, hazarding a guess. Her face is fierce when she looks at him. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. They did indeed," she simply says. "I think you can call me Sherlock at this point," he says. She nods absentmindedly and unpauses the TV show. "Have you ever seen _Doctor Who_?" she asks. "No basis in fact. I've had no reason to," Sherlock says. "Well shut up and watch," she says, grinning at him as she takes a fork from the bag. They finish the episode and start the next one. They talk some, but mostly it is _Doctor Who_ and Chinese and the sound of Rahne choking when she drinks to fast. He moved onto the bed when that happened, laughing as he hit her on the back. She was laughing as well and he feels somewhat drunk, like his brain isn't quite attached to the rest of him as he watches her.

_This is who I am, right here, right now. All right? All that counts is here and now and this is me!_

The Doctor is talking, but he doesn't care right now. Rahne is laughing at herself and him and the world, and he thinks that she is ridiculous and beautiful and sad. He doesn't want to, but he turns back to the screen. He can feel Rahne's body radiating heat next to him. He gets up and goes to the desk. "I'll change the bandage, let those cuts breathe a bit," he says as he gets out the ointment and gauze and another roll of bandage. They talk some as he unrolls the bandage on her arm, pulls the bloody gauze away and gently wipes away the excess of ointment. There isn't a lot of swelling, but the skin surrounding the cut he'd stitched is red and hot. "You might want to watch this one," he says, "I think that it might be a bit infected."

"You did a good job sewing it up, Sherlock," Rahne says as she inspects it. He tries to ignore the way his skin prickles at the way she says his name. "If it gets to swollen…" he starts before she cuts in. "Cut the stitches and pull them out so pus can get out. This isn't my first time," she says. He thinks about the scar on her leg. "I know," he says, embarrassed that he'd forgotten that detail. She laughs at the way his skin colors.

_You think it'll last forever, people and cars and concrete_. _But it won't._

She isn't laughing anymore, she is looking at him and he can't turn away. She starts to say something, but he can't hear it. His head is full of fog and he knows that he is Sherlock Holmes, married to his work, asexual, and all he want to do is kiss the woman in front of him

_One day it's all gone. Even the sky. My planet's gone. It's dead. It burned, like the Earth. It's just rocks and dust. Before its time._

He presses his lips against hers and his head is as clear as it has ever been. Fire runs through his veins as her mouth opens under his and he takes advantage of it, exploring her mouth as she slides her tongue over his. She tastes like Chinese food and, oddly enough, Jelly Babies. A hand is buried in his hair and another one is fisted in his jumper, pulling him closer. His hands are pulling her closer, clumsy because he doesn't know what he is doing anymore. Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, is kissing a girl with fire singing in his blood wanting more and not knowing what _more_ entails with this crazy girl who can fight three attackers and prevail with only minor injuries. They break apart a few minutes later, panting, foreheads pressed together, eyes searching the other's face trying to understand what was happening. It is Sherlock who speaks first.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammers, "I don't know why I did that." Rahne's eyes meet his as she moves back and smiles sadly. "It's ok," she says. Sherlock gets up, saying, "I'd better go." Rahne nods and doesn't look at him. His insides twist uncomfortably. He wants her to laugh again. His hand is on the doorknob when she calls his name. He almost hates himself for the way his body responds, like she has complete control of him. He turns his head to look at her. "Thanks, for everything," she says, smiling softly. He nods and leaves.


	3. Chapter Three: Midnight Walk

A week after they kiss, almost two weeks after the bruise she'd left on his arm had begun to fade, he went back. He was only passing by, he told himself; he wouldn't even stop at the door. It was two in the morning when he had finally turned off the TV and left the house. He rubbed the bruise on his arm, trying to convince himself that he wasn't going back because he wanted to see a woman. He was Sherlock Holmes, asexual, married to his work. Sherlock Holmes didn't go out at two in the morning to walk by the house of a woman who had tried to literally tear his throat out two weeks before. But the fact still remained that it was two in the morning and he was on his way to a woman's house without a jacket on, rubbing the fading bruise that held the shape of her teeth.

When he turned the corner onto her street about fifteen minutes later, Rahne was sitting on the front steps as if waiting for him. He watched as she lifted a cigarette to her lips, saw light glint from the ring on her thumb as she took a drag, the ember on the end flaring red-orange. He walked closer, in time to see her exhale, in time to smell the clove-scented smoke. Her head turned toward him, light sliding on her glasses. When Sherlock was a few paces away she moved so he could sit with her. "I got locked out," Rahne said, her voice subdued, not looking at him as he took the offered seat. He looked at her, the confused expression out of place of the great Sherlock Holmes's face. "You can borrow my lock picks if you'd like," he said. He had seen the set on her desk last time he had been to see her, so he knew she could use them, but even geniuses were prone to forgetting things. She shrugged, showing him the lock pick case she pulled from her pocket as she took another drag on the cigarette. "It's nice out and I don't want to go back inside. The door wasn't locked when I left." Smoke curled around her words, making them ethereal in the night. They sat in silence for a minute, unspoken words buzzing in their ears, before she asked the question that he had been asking himself since he had left 221b.

"So what brings you 'round these parts at this time of night, Mr. Holmes?" They sat for a while more while Sherlock tried to find an answer. "I went for a walk," he finally said. "And your walk brought you here?" As she asked the question he realized that she hadn't looked at him since he had sat down. He refused to think about why that made his guts twist uncomfortably. He looked at Rahne as she shivered. He wondered how long she had been sitting here, in just the jeans, T shirt, and thin sweatshirt that she was wearing. Sherlock could feel the night's chill even through his jumper and the long sleeves that he was wearing. He noticed that she wasn't wearing shoes or socks. "About an hour or so. Shouldn't be much longer." The answer to a question he hadn't realized he'd asked. Behind him the door clicked, as if it had been waiting for her to say those words.

Rahne took a final drag on the cigarette, stubbing it out as a man left the house, stepping between them. Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of alcohol and sex that came off the man. "You can come in if you'd like Mr. Holmes," Rahne said as she stood. The bruise he had noticed two weeks ago was now a pale yellow, barely visible. He realized that her voice was still subdued, like it had been the first time they had met. Not like the girl who had kissed him so hard his lip had bled or the girl whose bite mark on his arm still throbbed on occasion. Not the woman he had watched _Doctor Who_ and eaten Chinese with. Not the woman he had kissed, not the woman who had made his blood burn and race. She sounds tired.

"If it's not to much trouble," he said cautiously. He could see some of the tension in her ease away. "Come on in then." He followed her inside, jogging slightly to keep up with her as she rushed down the hall to her room. "Rahne!" Called a voice from another room. The woman in front of him jumped slightly. "You know where to find my room, Mr. Holmes. I'll join you in a moment," she said as she turned and walked in the direction the voice had come from. She paused for a moment and said, in a slightly teasing, slightly anxious tone, "Try not to touch anything, will you?"

Sherlock smiled at her. "I shall try to restrain myself." The half smile from her made the unsarcastic words worth it. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said before moving quickly away from him. Sherlock stood in the hall for a while after she left him, considering following her or obeying her wishes. His inherent curiosity won out, however, and he turned and went after her. It didn't take him long to hear the sound of a woman shouting, it took him less time to find the door to the room the yelling was coming from. It was the room that Aubrey had shown John and himself the day they had first come into this house.

"…hell did you go Rahne? I told you that I had someone for you to meet! Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to invite someone over to meet you and you are nowhere to be found?" Aubrey's voice still sounded like sex when she was mad. Sherlock was willing to wager that anger made her even more beautiful. "He seemed pretty happy when he left. Why are you so desperate for me to meet people, anyway? Did you ever think that there is a reason that I lock myself in my room?" He could hear Aubrey sigh at those words. "Look, Rahne, I know you don't trust me since I sent you to the hospital…" Rahne interrupted, "You are damn straight that I don't trust you!" Aubrey continued as if Rahne hadn't spoken, "But it was for your own good. I know you don't believe that, but it's true. If you don't start getting out of your room soon I'll have to call Dr. Monroe again." Rahne's voice was dangerously quiet. "Don't you fucking dare, Aubrey."

"Rahne, don't use that language with me." Aubrey's voice was sharper now, but Rahne's quieter voice cut like a knife. "No, Aubrey. Don't you use that fucking doctor as a threat every time I do something you don't like. I'm never going to fit in your perfect view of the world, no matter how many hospitals you throw me into, no matter how many doctors you pay to say I'm a threat to society. Let me live how I want to, and I'll let you run your perfect life without me." Sherlock heard footsteps approach the door and ran quietly away from the door, mind buzzing. He was almost to the door of Rahne's room when she caught up with him.

"I changed my mind," Rahne said, brushing by him, "Do you want to go for a walk?" Sherlock didn't comment about her abrupt change of mind, just waited for her to put her shoes on and grab a coat, and when she walked past him towards the front door he didn't comment on the small smear of blood at the corner of her mouth either.

They walked the sidewalks of midnight London side by side, silent for the most part until Sherlock got bored and started talking. He started a slight war with Rahne over who knew the most obscure fact. He stopped playing when she told him of the paper nautilus's detachable penis. She had a peculiar walk; weaving like a drunk and often bumping him, and then suddenly veering off to inspect something that had caught her attention, shattered windscreen glass scattered across the pavement, a crow feather on a bin lid, a shadow that looked like a huddled human but was actually a pile of rubbish, weedy flowers sprouting through the crack between where a building ended and the sidewalk began. She picked one of the flowers, sniffed it, sneezed, looked at it for a moment like she was expecting it to attack her and sneezed again, before running up to Sherlock and shoving it through the top button hole of his coat.

He blinked at the sudden feel of light fingers threading the stem into his coat, and then she was off again. It was, he mused, somewhat like walking with a small yapper-type dog or a child. A very short attention span and endless energy. Suddenly, ahead of him, Rahne yawned, showing him white teeth and a pink tongue. He changed his assessment from 'small child/dog' to 'puppy'. She shook herself and sprinted ahead of him, disappearing around a corner. When Sherlock turned round the same corner she was nowhere in sight. He looked for her, expecting her to jump out of an alleyway or sidestreet in an attempt to startle him. No sign. Half a minute passed. Still no sign. He continued walking, keeping an ear out for the sound of quieted footsteps. As he passed an alleyway, he cast a glance into it, making sure there was no Rahne going to pop out at him like a jack-in-a-box. Nothing. He kept walking. Then a hand grabbed his coat and pulled him off balance. He fell backwards, catching himself before rear met cold pavement. He turned and was faced with laughing eyes, a mad grin, and a feather tickling his nose. He jerked his head back, away from the tickling feather, and met Rahne's gaze. "Let's go to the park," she said before Sherlock opened his mouth.


	4. Chapter Four: Crazy, Beautiful, Sad

((A/N: This is my first go at writing a lemon, so bear with me…))

They walked around the park for a while, Rahne picking up feathers that the crows and pigeons had left behind during the day. Sherlock was about to question why when she pulled bits of string from her pocket and started tying the feathers together. In a few seconds she had an impromptu crown of feathers. She laughed and danced around him proclaiming herself queen. He had laughed at the silliness and bowed to her. The beaten down girl he had seen smoking on her front stoop was gone, had been since the paper nautilus penis. He watched her trying to climb a tree and wondered which was the real her. Only when she fell backwards, knocking the wind out of herself did she leave the tree and trot back over to him.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, " I do believe that you are watching your queen in a most curious manner." Sherlock allowed a small smile. "Your crown hath fallen, Park Queen," he told her. She patted her head and shrugged. "So it has. What are you thinking about Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock looked at her for several seconds, questions bubbling in his mind, everything that he wanted to ask her, everything that made him curious about her. "Why are you calling me Mr. Holmes again?" he asked and then mentally kicked himself. He got the feeling that there were only so many questions that she would answer.

Rahne cocked her head, looking at him like a confused bird. "Because that is your name. Aubrey said 'Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson are coming to help us find the skulls.' She said some other things too, but it was boring and I forgot." She walked off, found a bench, sat down, pulled another clove cigarette out, lit it, and took a deep drag, "And then you told me to call you Sherlock and you kissed me," she said, smoke leaking out the corners of her smile, her eyes intent on his, "Then you got up and left like I'd done something wrong. So now we're back to Mr. Holmes." He sat down next to her. "Call me Sherlock," he said softly, looking at her, "please." Rahne blew smoke at him. "Alright then, Sherlock," she said. He could feel embers ignite in his blood as his name passed her lips and the clove scented nicotine hit his lungs.

"How long will you answer questions tonight?" Sherlock asked, the nagging suspicion that she would only remain agreeable for so long still floating in his brain.

Rahne blew smoke out her nose, and allowed a momentary daydream in which she was a dragon soaring high in the clouds, laughing at the stick figure humans stuck to the ground below her. She shook her head, clearing the dragon from her mind. "For tonight you have until I have smoked this cigarette to the filter." Holmes pondered his questions. "Where did the bruise come from? I judged it to be two days old when I came by last week." Rahne inhaled smoke and let it curl out of her mouth. "I fell down the stairs." Holmes stared at her. "There are no stairs in your flat. If you fell on the front steps there would be scratches. Where'd the bruise come from?" More clove-scented smoke as Rahne spoke.

"Pass," she said. "Excuse me?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Pass. I won't answer that question. You're smart enough to figure it out, I'm fairly certain you already have. Don't take the short cut, choose another question," her voice left no room for argument. "Why were you in hospital?" he asked.

"I thought you might listen in on that lovely little spat. You didn't have many friends growing up, did you? You've seen the scar on my leg? That was from the last fight I got into before I got put in the asylum. I worked at a fish and chip shop when I was eighteen; this bloke attacked me when I was walking home one night. He had a knife and I'd left mine at home again. He got me cornered and started cutting. I was on the ground before he dropped his guard enough for me to get the knife. He was trying to get his zipper down and I kicked him in the knee. I saw it go backwards and I grabbed the knife. I don't remember what happened next, I was told that I castrated him before I slit his throat. The court sentenced me to a mental care facility until I was deemed sane. It took one nurse, four doctors, and six years to decide that I was well enough to leave. Next question."

A long drag this time, she wouldn't go back on her word but they wouldn't be here for much longer. The cigarette was already half gone. "Why'd you bite me?" The scornful look in Rahne's eyes said he was an idiot. "I was having a bad day and you scared me. Next."

Sherlock was scrabbling for questions, a genius at a loss for words. He heard the faint crackle, saw the cherry flare, as she inhaled smoke again. "Which is the real you?" She looked at him, mid exhale. Smoke continued to trickle from her parted lips, but it appeared that she had forgotten to continue expelling it. Finally there was a rush of smoke, making her face blur. "What exactly do you mean, Mr. Holmes?" He breathed in. He wasn't very good with people, it was true, but it would take a stupider man than him to miss the warning in that question. The warning that slapped you in the face, possibly the genitals, and said loudly 'If you continue she will leave and if you try to see her again you _will_ get stabbed!'

"You are one of the complex people I have ever met, second only to Moriarty," he began. "Excellent," she muttered, "I'm second to a serial killer." He decided to ignore that comment. "In the two weeks I've known you, you've hidden from me, bitten me, kissed me, and proclaimed to be queen of a park. You've taught me how to play video games while you held a knife. You've been feral, and then scared of your own shadow. As soon as I catalogue you in one section you become something completely different. On top of all that you are incredibly brilliant and yet you do nothing with this intelligence." He sighed. "You confuse me, Rahne. It's not something that happens very often." Silence followed his small speech and Sherlock shifted on the bench. Rahne stared at him then burst out laughing. "First you compare me to a serial killer, and then you say I confuse you?"

She stubbed out her cigarette and collapsed with laughter again. Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, could think of nothing that would work, then shut it again. "Oh, don't get your feathers all ruffled, Sherlock," she said, laughter making her voice dance. He turned to her, about to say something when she leaned toward him. Before he could register it, her lips were on his again, more tentative than last time.

Everything… fractured. On the one hand there was his sociopathic self, analyzing everything, down to the bodily functions that were currently causing his penis to harden. On the other side there was a voice that he had thought was long dead telling him to stop thinking for _once in his goddamn life_ and just act. When she had kissed him the first time it had been vicious, an attempt to affect him. When he had kissed her it had been clumsy, the fumbling of someone who'd never done anything like it before. This kiss lacked everything, just a soft, warm pressure on his lips; it was a gateway to a possibility, if he wanted to find out where it led. His brain wasn't working anymore and she was pulling back.

"Well, it's been a party Sherlock. I'm done with the Q&A session now. I'll see you around." Rahne got up and started walking away, Sherlock still waiting for his brain to tell him what had just happened. Five seconds and he could almost hear his brain powering back on and all it said was "You are a complete nit. Stop thinking and act like you're not a complete fucking twat." Sherlock bolted up and after her, grabbing her arm, spinning her into him and crashing them together. "Sorry," he said, before lowering his lips to hers. She followed his lead, which was hilarious to him because he'd only done this twice before, and he stopped thinking and let his body take over.

His tongue traced her lips, and forced its way into her mouth. She stroked it with her own before lightly sucking on it. A small moan forced it's way from his mouth to hers and he pulled her closer. Her arms snaked around his waist and her hands slid up his shirt, nails lightly scratching the skin of his back. He was mindless now, he could only focus on Rahne. She tasted of cloves and faintly of nicotine and even more faintly of Lucozade. She smelled like lemongrass and lavender, and she was _so_ _warm_ against him. He ground himself against her and she moaned into his mouth as she felt the bulge of his arousal. He almost went cross eyed at how good it felt, to have a female molded to him, moaning when she felt the press of him against her.

He pulled back, heard her growl in frustration and allowed himself a small smile full of masculine pride. They were both out of breath, and he had to stop himself from dragging her off and fucking her against a tree. "This is what it must be like to be normal," he thought to himself, saying aloud, "I'm not going to be able to stop soon Rahne."

Her brow furrowed and her eyes closed, trying to gather herself, trying not to think about his heated skin under her palms. It didn't help that all she could smell was him, all she could feel was him, and if his dick twitched one more time she was going to fuck him in this _very_ public park. "So what would you recommend, Sherlock?" Good lord, she could feel him inhale through her hands, feel him shudder as she said his name. "It's up to you. If you want, I'll go my way and you go yours and we'll pretend like this never happened. Or we can go to the nearest place where we won't be charged with public indecency and take care of a few things." She shivered at the heat in his voice and he dropped his head to the crook of her neck and groaned. She grinned and nipped his shoulder. "Follow me, Mr. Holmes," she whispered in his ear. She pulled away from him, shivering at the loss of his heat. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the other side of the park. Two left turns after they hit the sidewalk, followed by a right, another left, two more rights, and a left down a side street that looked like an alleyway and they were at a flat that Sherlock didn't recognize. Rahne unlocked the door with the key that hung around her neck and walked in, turning to look at him. "Come on in, Mr. Holmes."

The flat was small, three rooms, but the bedroom was large. It warm in the flat, the heating was on so someone obviously lived here. "I own it," Rahne said, "In case Aubrey gets serious about making me go back to the asylum." Rahne was faced away from him, locking the front door. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and kissed the back of her neck. "I won't let them take you back," he said. She turned around and kissed him, slow and sweet, reawakening the urgency that had driven them before. God, he hadn't known that a human penis could get hard that quickly. The sociopath in him was buzzing with facts, but it was a low drone, like a fly hitting a windowpane, and easily tuned out. He pinned Rahne to the door, breaking the kiss long enough to pull the sweatshirts off her. She pushed his coat from his shoulders and he let it drop. The jumper went next and before it hit the ground her fingers were already working on the buttons of his shirt.

Sherlock curled his fingers in Rahne's hair, pulling her back into a kiss, his other hand already under her shirt trying to unhook her bra. He was fairly certain that he would've already gotten the bloody thing if it hadn't been created as a rudimentary chastity device. He pulled away from her and employed both hands, crying out in triumph as Rahne shook against him, laughing at him as she finished unbuttoning his shirt. She stopped laughing as the shirt fell to the floor. She looked dazed. "Rahne?" Sherlock asked, "Are you okay? Is this alright?" She looked up at him. "Yes, I'm fine," she said, brushing her fingers over the burn scars on his chest before stepping around him, sliding her hand down his arm, pulling him into the bedroom and closing the door. The room was faintly lit by the street lamps outside and by a glowing alarm clock, but it was dark enough that Rahne was almost invisible with just the pale blur of her face visible. His hand whispered along the wall, groping for a switch, but Rahne grabbed his hand and kissed his palm. "No lights," she whispered. She sounded scared. "We don't have to do this Rahne, I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to," he told her, cupping her face and lightly stroking the pale yellow of the bruise she wouldn't tell him how she got. "I want this, believe me, I do. I just… It's a thing, okay? Just trust me, I do want this Sherlock."

His name on her lips made him feel like he had just been gifted with something extraordinary and he wanted to hear her say it again, wanted to hear her scream it as she came. He pulled her closer to him. "Okay," he said simply, pressing his lips to her forehead. "Okay." She pulled him closer, like if she got close enough they would become one whole and entirely new entity. He could feel the roughness of scabs and stitches and knew that she had removed the bandages a day or so ago. Long enough that the ointment had dried on her skin.

Her hands skated across his back, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, one sliding down to rub him through his trousers while the other unbuckled his belt and pants. He groaned, his mind shutting off, nipping at her neck, licking the sensitive cartilage of her ear, his hands working to get her shirt off so he could have a slight reprieve from the burning that ate through his bones at her touch. His pants hit the floor and her shirt and bra followed.

She pulled him towards the bed, his nimble fingers working at her belt, then her pants, and by the time he pushed her onto the mattress she was completely naked. His hands explored her body, as his eyes couldn't in the dim light. He memorized what made her squirm, what made her gasp, what made her moan, and every time she tried to draw him on top of her he pushed her hands away. By the time he leaned down to kiss her again she was almost frantic and she kissed him so hard that their teeth clicked. His long fingers skated down her body to find her core already dripping. He smiled into the kiss as he traced her opening, listening to her keen and moan, feeling her buck her hips against his hand. He slowly pushed a finger into her, slowly moved it, listening to her breathing as he did so. He moved down, pressing kisses on her thighs as he continued his slow torturous movements. He pressed another finger into her, felt her clench around them and groaned as his cock twitched. He was almost painfully hard but he wanted to make her scream his name in pleasure before he indulged himself.

His fingers still moving slowly within her, his other hand holding her still, he kissed his way to her moist slit. He flicked his tongue against her, and she cried out. His fingers sped up as he licked and sucked her clit. For someone who was married to his work, the man had magic fingers. And a magic tongue, Rahne decided, crying out again. She could feel something coiling in her belly, heat rolled over her. "Oh god," she whimpered, allowing the undignified noise to pass her lips. She could feel Sherlock smile against her, feel the press of another finger, feel his pace increase just a little bit more and… sparks shot across her skin, making her shudder and dig her nails into any of Sherlock's skin she could reach as she moaned his name.

He was on top of her before she had fully recovered, his mouth covering hers as he braced himself above her. "Condoms?" he breathed, proud that he still had some cognitive function. "You clean?" Rahne asked, still panting. Sherlock nodded. "Me too, and on birth control, so no need," she said, wrapping her legs around him, flipping them over. One hand guided him in and the groaned in unison. He filled her completely, beautifully and she almost came again just from the feeling of him inside her. When she looked at him she saw he was looking at her like the most intricate of puzzles, completely focused on her, pupils blow wide in arousal. Her breath hitched and she tightened around him, making him groan and grip her hips tightly.

She smiled and started to move, slowly, torturously slow. Sherlock's eyes slid closed as she moved against him, panting him time with her movements. Suddenly he growled and flipped them over, pounding into her as the fire in his blood built to a raging inferno. She cried out as she came again, her walls squeezing him as he came. He bit her shoulder to muffle the sounds of his release.

They lay together, trying to catch their breath, for a few minutes before she spoke. "If you tell me you're sorry and you don't know why you did that, I will hurt you," Rahne said. Sherlock looked at her and burst out laughing. "No, Rahne. I think you are quite safe from that particular ineptitude." Rahne smiled back at him. "Good," she said, "Because I really didn't want to have to hurt you." Sherlock smiled and pulled her closer to him, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of her skin against his. "I wouldn't want that either," he said, kissing her forehead and tasting the salt of her sweat on his lips. Rahne sighed and pulled a blanket over them, curling against him as she closed her eyes. Sherlock lay awake for a few more moments, smiling as he thought about the reactions of the people he knew when he told them that he was with a girl, a woman, who could take him in a fight. Rahne murmured in her sleep and moved closer to him. He rolled over and pulled her to him. He didn't know the future but he knew that he would keep her for as long as he could. His wonderful, crazy, beautiful, sad, nonsensical girl.


	5. Chapter Five: Eight Months, Ten Minutes

((A/N: Due to the wonderful encouragement of a few of my readers, not to mention this story being favorited more times than I thought it would be, I have decided to write a bit more about Rahne and Sherlock. Thank you very much!))

It has been almost eight months since Sherlock woke up next to Rahne when he decides to go see her again. Eight months since the night in the park, eight months since he woke up and saw all the scars she had tried to hide from him the night before. Eight months since he left her flat without a word, without waking her, smelling like sex. He has missed talking to her, he really has. John has gotten monotonous, Mrs. Hudson hasn't stopped pestering him, and yet he can't make himself pick up his cell phone and text her. Eight months.

Sherlock opens the door and finds her watching a movie. _Repo! The Genetic Opera_ she tells him when he asks. She is stretched across her bed and she doesn't look at him, even when he asks what movie she is watching. A black tank top and a pair of jeans riddled with holes. The tank top has ridden up, exposing a clean black line of a tattoo reaching down from her shoulders. It wasn't there eight months ago. He wants to know what it is, what it is, trace the lines with his fingertips and feel her skin shiver. She sits up and pauses the movie, he notices the dog collar around her neck. The tags jingle when she moves.

"It's been a while since you came to see me," Rahne says, rubbing the heel of her right hand under her left breastbone. The tags on her collar rattle with the movement. She still doesn't look at him. He sits next to her and doesn't say anything. They watch the movie through till the end without saying anything. When Rahne stands up to get the DVD they still don't say anything. She puts the disk back in its case and the noise it makes is the loudest sound in the room. She puts the case on a shelf near the television and turns to him. "So what is it that I can do for you Mr. Holmes."

It's not a question; she says it merely to get him to speak. He notices that she only calls him Mr. Holmes when she's irritated with him. "I came to make sure you weren't dead," he says, only half joking. She shoots him an irritated glare. "It has been almost a year and I only called you the one time. I take care of myself." She's been fighting again, but he already knew that. Lestrade had called last month, telling him that there'd been a streak of random violence all tied together by blood samples that matched neither the victims or anything in the database. "It has been a long time, Mr. Holmes. What do you want?" In the months he hadn't seen her she'd developed a nervous tick, fiddling with her lighter, the flame lighting the room and plunging it into darkness again and again. Something was wrong. In the time they'd been... whatever it was they were, she'd never been this anxious. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"Wrong?" Her head shot up. "Wrong? You come here _now_ and you ask me what is _wrong_?" She is yelling and he doesn't know why it bothers him so much. "She sent me back! They're coming to take me away HAHA!" The last words were part of a song he didn't know, but recognized all the same. Maybe John had been singing it when he came back from the pub after a night with his army buddies. "Five months _at the least_, no books, no music, no video games, no movies, and I'm still _broken_. This is going to happen again and again until they find a way to medicate my brain out of the goddamn picture!" Somewhere along the line during her rant she had begun crying, the tears becoming shining streaks on her face as the lighter flicked on and off and on. Sherlock gets up and tries to pull her into his arms but she pushes him away, fury written all over her face; fury and shame and something that has no business being on her face. Helplessness. It makes something inside of him go cold. He wants to ask what he's done but she screams at him to get out.

Five seconds after he closes the door he can hear her slam against it, can hear her nails scrabbling at the door, can hear the animalistic cry of rage at lost prey escape her throat. She has hit rock bottom and not even his voice can reach her there.

He is half way to Baker Street when he realizes why she was mad at him, why that mix of emotion on her face before she told him to get out. He remembers the words he said to her as he kissed the back of her neck the night they slept together. _I won't let them take you back._ He swore quietly to himself as realization hit him, leaning his back against a brick wall in an alley. Rage for believing him, shame that she was angry about words said by a man clouded by hormones, helplessness because she still wanted to believe him. "Fuck," he groaned, propelling himself away from the wall and back towards 221b Baker Street.

He wonders if he will ever see Rahne again.


	6. Chapter Six: What We Deserve

A month later Rahne comes to find Sherlock. It's the first time she's been here since meeting the great Sherlock Holmes. She wonders if he'll see her, wonders if he'll even understand why she's come to grovel. She will apologize and leave. She knocks and is greeted by the landlady. She remembers to introduce herself to the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, before she asks after Sherlock. She remembers to call him Mr. Holmes.

She ends up sitting in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen trying not to fidget. Sherlock and John are gone for the day, Mrs. Hudson says, would you like a cuppa? Rahne nods and says, "Yes please, thank you." Like a good girl, a normal client, would do. She needs to be nondescript and suddenly she's cursing her outfit. She should've at least thought to take off the collar.

She's gnawing on a thumbnail when Mrs. Hudson places the cup of tea in front of her. The tea is strong and hot and milky. Rahne thanks Mrs. Hudson again. Mrs. Hudson smiles and gives her a couple of biscuits. Rahne decides she likes Mrs. Hudson.

They chatter for a little bit and Rahne finishes her tea and a biscuit. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I think I should probably be going now," Rahne says. Mrs. Hudson looks mildly disappointed, but says, "Alright dear, you be safe getting home now." Rahne smiles and nods and says thank you and goodbye. She likes Sherlock's landlady, how kind she is. She thinks about what Mrs. Hudson has told her about Sherlock's latest case, with Miss Irene Adler the domineering dominatrix as the client.

She wonders if Miss Irene Adler looks beautiful. She wonders if she unscarred, in mind and body. She wonders if Miss Irene Adler has ever killed a man in the street, wonders if Miss Irene Adler has ever almost been killed in the street. She wonders if Miss Irene Adler has ever done something she hasn't wanted to do.

She doesn't notice the cab pulling up to 221b Baker Street. She doesn't notice Sherlock and John getting out of the cab, or Mrs. Hudson greeting them on the step. She's wishing that she hadn't gone out with an old mate of hers and gotten drunk last night, and, simultaneously, that she wishes that she had never stopped drinking. Her right foot hurts from where someone stepped on her. At least that's what she thinks happened. She doesn't _exactly_ remember.

She stops at the nearest shop and buys gin with what cash she has on her, opening it as she leaves the shop. At another shop she buys some cranberry juice with what she has left and sits on the sidewalk to mix them together.

Later, when Rahne looks Miss Irene Adler up online, Rahne will think that the other woman looks intelligent, enough to make Sherlock run in circles (for a short time at least), and cruel.

She will wonder if Miss Irene Adler is more impressed by Sherlock or herself.

~`x`~`x`~`x`~

By the time John's paid the cabbie Mrs. Hudson is already outside. "Sherlock, you've just had a client leave. I tried to keep her here, but she's just left. I'm sure that you could catch up with her if you try. Strangely dressed, but she's such a nice girl." Sherlock only wants to see one girl. "How do you mean strangely dressed?" He asks the question, but it's halfhearted. He's already bored. "Well, she had a dog collar on for one thing," Mrs. Hudson began. Sherlock's attention screeches to a halt and suddenly all his focus is on Mrs. Hudson's words. "What did she look like?" he asked, a little more intensely than he had originally meant. It is starting to rain

"Brown hair, blue eyes, and she was ever so pale. And thin, too. I gave her some biscuits," Mrs. Hudson said, but Sherlock was already impatient. "Where Mrs. Hudson, which way did she go!" Mrs. Hudson wordlessly points and Sherlock is off like a shot. For the first time in his life he actually _wants_ to apologize for something he doesn't understand.

Five minutes later he sees her, copper hair like a beacon in the crowd. He feels old as she smiles at someone, not him, and limps down the street and drinking something deep red from a plastic bottle. He knows something is hurting her; he's just close enough that he can see how the skin around her eyes is tight. She takes another pull from her bottle and walks a bit more evenly. He doesn't know if anyone else can, or even if they would care. A busker is playing Richard Thompson and the chords drift down the street. He yells her name and she flinches, but she doesn't turn to look. She turns down a side street and is gone by the time Sherlock reaches it. He tries her flat, only to find someone else living there. He tries her sister's flat, only to learn that Rahne had moved out a few weeks ago. The last place he tries is the park where they had kissed before claiming defeat. He stands in the rain for a few minutes before turning and heading back to 221b.

~`x`~`x`~`x`~

It is deep night and women like her should not be walking the street. This is the time of prostitutes and drunkards. She is singing a song about breaking bones and body bags and Sherlock is following her. She can hear the occasional quiet scuff of his shoe against pavement when he missteps. She doesn't care. "_Yes you do_" the feral thing inside her purrs. She tells herself that she doesn't care. It has been a year since she stopped by his flat to apologize. She has gotten a job writing movie reviews for a local paper. It's more fun than she thought it would be, and she can work from home.

The feral thing inside her stretches and she suddenly feels like her skin doesn't fit correctly. Her shirt turns into sandpaper and her hands and feet feel cold and clammy. She stops singing and pulls off the baggy shirt, grateful that she's wearing a tank top under it, and tucks the shirt into the back pocket of her jeans. The tags on her collar clink together, and the sound is loud in the absence of her voice.

Sherlock's shoe scuffs against the pavement again. She tells herself that she doesn't care. It has been almost seventeen minutes since he started following her.

She doesn't know what he was doing out at this time in the morning, or why he's following her, and she doesn't care.

A pub door opens ahead of her, distracting her as several rowdy drunk patrons spill out of it. Two of them see her and make a beeline towards her. They stagger as they walk and she feels out of place in her own skin. "What's a pretty young thing such as you doin out so late?" one of them asks. His voice is rough and he looks like he's trying very hard not to go cross-eyed. His friend snickers at the witty comment. She doesn't answer; looking up at the sky wondering if the light she sees is a planet or a satellite.

"Hey!" The almost cross-eyed man snarls, "It's polite to answer your elders, girl!" His hand around her arm hurts but she forces herself not to react. The feral thing inside her bares its teeth and unsheathes its claws. _"Let me out and never be scared again,"_ it whispers inside her head. She almost does. The man is saying something, insulting her and her intelligence, but she doesn't care. She tells herself that she is keeping the feral thing in check because she wants to handle this herself. It has nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock is watching her. She knows he won't help her; he is strictly an observer tonight.

The man pushes her, she looses her balance and falls into a wall. There's a forearm across her throat and the man is telling her that if she is very, very good and she doesn't scream he will let her live. Then he slaps her. He has done this before, maybe his friend has watched. The bricks are rough against her bare shoulders. Then her tank top is being ripped and the split second of terror is over ridden by the fierce joy the feral thing feels as it is set free. She is dreaming now.

_Her fingernails are claws and she rakes them down the arm across her throat. The man growls and pushes harder. She can't breathe. Her knee jerks up and the man crumples. Her foot flashes forward into the man's face and blood sprays from his broken nose. The man's friend isn't drunkenly giggling now. He looks scared. She can feel her face split in a grin. He lunges towards her, maybe trying to escape. She punches him in the face, then in the gut, before mashing his face into the wall he had been cowering against. Her side hurts. There is blood on her hands. Both the men are moaning on the ground, their blood pooling together. There is a knife next to the man with the broken face, the blade glistens like ice._

_She puts her foot on the cross-eyed man's neck and tells him if he is very, very good and doesn't scream, she will let him live. She puts more and more weight on her foot and she can almost _feel_ the vertebrae creaking from the pressure. The man is gasping for air that can't force it's way into his lungs._

_Suddenly arms wrap around her and lift her away from her prey. She lashes out with claws and elbows and feet, but she can't get a solid hit in. She snarls and thrashes in the confining grip, but the arms are made of steel and she can't escape. She's in a different alley, against a different wall, pinned by a different man. The original her thinks the man is beautiful, the new her is wondering if she can beat him in a fight. "Rahne, if I let you go will you run?" The man is talking and she is already shaking her head to his question._

_The man lets her go cautiously, ready to stop her fleeing or attacking. She remembers biting him one time. She feels the blood on her hands and holds them up. The streetlight makes the blood look black, her hands look like she has been playing with ink. Swirls and streaks run all over the backs of them. "Beautiful," she breaths, a smile breaking her face in two again. Her hands look like an old movie, black and white and beautiful, and suddenly she is so tired._

She is back in her body, lying on the ground. Her skin feels like it fits her right again and her side hurts _so fucking much_ it overrides the sensation of cold concrete chilling her back. Cold fingers touch her neck and she sees Sherlock bending over her. He looks like Death, bone white skin, black hair, black overcoat and pants. She can't see his shirt. She is floating and Sherlock's face is right next to hers. She is tired and cold. Her shirt has been ripped and the fiery pain in her side makes her want to cry. Cold slides down her face and she realizes that she already is. She tucks her face into Sherlock's coat and lets herself cry.

~`x`~`x`~`x`~

When she wakes up she is in an unfamiliar bed and her side is on fire. She ignores the flames and feels the wound on her left side, feels the precise stitches that hold it closed. She counts twenty-seven. She knows that she didn't sew the wound closed, she barely remembers anything other than the man walking past her, waiting for her in the alley. She remembers the knife, and then it's all a blur of agony. She tries to sit up and bites her lip to stop a torrent of expletives spilling into the open air. There is a poster of the Periodic Table on the wall across from her; a familiar, expensive-looking coat is draped across a chair on her right. She takes a deep breath, only to hiss most of it out as her side reminds her of its condition. The room smells like Sherlock. There is a glass of water and two and a half small white pills on the bedside table next to the chair. A Post-It note on the glass says "When you wake up, take the pills and drink ALL the water."

'All' is underlined and capitalized.

She smiles and follows the Post-It note's orders. The pills are pain killers and sedatives, she can feel her eyelids drooping and her thoughts becoming sluggish about five minutes after she takes them. The fire in her side recedes a minute after, and then she knows nothing as the sedatives finally drag her under.

~`x`~`x`~`x`~

When Sherlock lets himself into his room, Rahne is asleep again. In his bed. The thought makes him irrationally happy. She is still wearing the collar, in the daylight it is Day-Glo orange and it has plastic reflectors sewn into the sides, the kind dog owners get so _maybe_ Fido won't get run over by a car in the middle of the night. The tags are worn, the collar and tags have actually been worn by a dog. He wants to take it off her and throw it across the room. It reminds him too much of the _Oh, he's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash… In fact, I might_ said in a tone that caresses his ears and makes him hard and makes him want to smack the Woman across the face, wants to throw it all back in her arrogance.

He remembers the last time he saw her. _I won't even last six months._ He feels the anger and hurt and betrayal boil to the surface again. He looks at the woman sleeping in his bed and wonders what she has done to him, unlocking the useless emotions inside him. Rahne stirs in the bed beside him. Her voice is gravely and her breath is stale with sleep. "You should save her." It takes Sherlock a minute to understand who she's talking about. "Why?" he asks, "There is no point and she doesn't deserve it." Rahne's eyes aren't open and he can't read her as easily as he used to. She has changed in the year that he missed. He isn't sure if she is still interesting or just as tragically boring as everyone else in the world. "None of us deserve to be saved, Mr. Holmes, but you picked me up out of an alleyway and brought me home for Mr. Watson to patch up. Miss Irene Addler deserves at least a little of the same kindness. She is just trying to survive, the same as everyone."

Sherlock sits by his bed for a few minutes more until Rahne's breathing evens out, and then he stands up and leaves. He collects a few things in a backpack and tells John to take care of Rahne while he is gone.

~`x`~`x`~`x`~

Sherlock is gone for a few days, and when he gets back it is raining and his bed is empty. John tells him that Rahne left the day after he did. Sherlock avoids John's questions by picking up his violin. John leaves a half hour later, which is a good thing because he has started to loose interest in playing.

When John comes back Sherlock can tell he is about to lie about something. John is an honest type of person and he gets shifty when he is about to lie, which sometimes amuses and sometimes irritates Sherlock. "It's about Irene Addler." Sherlock is a much better liar than John. "What's happened? Has she come back?" The conversation plays out with John giving him the dead phone that had once proclaimed a woman's love for him. John leaves to give the Woman's files back to Mycroft and Sherlock looks out at the rainy streets.

A very thin, very pale woman stands on the sidewalk across from his window, she is wearing a coat that looks like it might be one of his. She has vibrant blue hair that clashes with her Day-Glo orange dog collar. She is looking up at his window and smiling, before she turns to walk away, one hand holding her left side like it pains her. Sherlock doesn't open the window or run outside. He knows that he will see her again, his beautiful, feral, crazy, sad girl.

She still has his coat, after all.

**((A/N: I think that this will be the end of this story. I may post oneshots containing Rahne and Sherlock, but for the moment I like this for an ending. Thanks to my readers for all the wonderful comments!))**


End file.
